Fog in the Evening
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Drabble series, random fics for one of the most blood-splatterd, suspenseful, and frightfully beguiling of Holmes and Watson's cases, the one which the doctor was never permitted to pen, cryptically entitled: The Awakened.
1. Destined

_This drabble is not exactly for the Sherlock Holmes books. Neither is it for the movie. It is for the game: "Sherlock Holmes: The Awakened." *commence scary background music*  
__This game is, in my opinion, at least equal to any of the stories, and if you've ever played it, you'll know precisely what I mean. *shivers* There's limbless bodies, a man's corpse that tears open at the torso and octopus arms squiggle out everywhere, a tree with bloodied carcasses hanging like fruit from its branches…okay, sorry, got carried away. *blushes* You travel from Baker Street to New Orleans and Scotland, to an (atrociously!) insane asylum and a pirate's cave under a lighthouse…and I'll stop blabbering now. *giggles*  
__While it is for the Awakened, you don't necessarily have to have played the game to understand it, I don't think.  
__Anyway...enjoy!_

**Destined**

I sat in my study, prescribing yet another cough medicine to a fussy Mrs. Osprey, my twelfth patient of the day since 5 a.m..

As I scribbled the all-too-familiar notes, my mind wandered to my friend Sherlock Holmes, who, I knew very well, was lounging restlessly around our rooms at Baker Street, in all probability glaring out the sitting room window, cursing the streets for their lack of criminal excitement. I could hear his cold, cynical voice in my head distinctly: "It's the tedium, Watson; the criminal world has lost every once of audacity and originality since the death of Moriarty. My mind rebels at this stagnation."

And surely enough, when I entered at a quarter 'til two that afternoon, his words were nearly exactly that.

With growing concern, abundant sympathy, and a twinge of guilt for not having the time to stay longer, I did my best to reassure my dearest friend of that fact that the complex problems and suspenseful adventure that he so craved were not so far away, that our dreary, monotonous lives were closely destined to be disturbed by great clues and conundrums, villains and victims forthcoming for the use of only his singular talents.

I hoped as much as he that the heavens heard me.

If only we'd known then for what we were praying.

* * *

_Even though I doubt this will produce much response (not many people avoid doing their homework just to play badly-computerized Holmes games *hehe*), I'll probably add more drabbles anyway, just for my own sake. *biggrin*_


	2. Strange

_Wow…didn't take long for me to update…what, two hours? That must be a record for me. *giggles*_

_This one was inspired by the bartender in the Cursed Mermaid scenes; why did he reveal to Holmes and Watson all of that information, unless perhaps he saw something in the way they treated both each other and their fellowman…?*biggrin*_

**Strange**

He'd seen some strange things in his lifetime. One had to be prepared for such when his occupation was that of a barman in a place called Cursed Mermaid just a measly twelve steps away from the most putrid, unclean parts of London - the dockyards.

In fact, all the evening long an eighty-year-old man had been staring sluggishly up at him through red-rimmed eyes, choking down his eight bottles of liquor, waving the hook he had instead of a right hand, explaining, through slurred speech and broken phrases, that last summer he'd had worms and used the wrong limb when an attack hit in the middle of the night…and couldn't sit down for three bloody weeks.

Yes, he'd seen some odd goings-on. But this was the first time he'd had two well-dressed West End gentlemen walk into his pub twice within thirty minutes - the first time, requesting how to find a man whose name they didn't even know, the only description they had narrowing it down to half his customers; the second time, they were looking for "Dirty" Sommers, examining the table behind the curtain he'd gathered his sailors in the night before, and asking where to find the customs agent called Beddoes.

He was debating on whether to throw these two out of his pub, for it was obvious they had something to do - or were trying to have - with "Dirty" and his unsheathed-knife meetings, when the shorter, mustached man - had the taller one called him "Watson"? - nudged his companion as he turned toward the door, giving him a reprimanding look and motioning toward the package the first held under his arm.

When the drunkard sliced open the parcel and pulled out his missing wooden hand, he thought, amid the cries of "Thank-you!" and the awkward "You are welcome, my dear sir," that perhaps the strangest ones out there might also be the best.

* * *

_Random game stuff: Did anyone else notice Holmes' expression when the drunk man told the "worms and hook" story?? "Well, gentlemen...again, thank you. Have a nice day." *giggles*_


	3. Home

_Hello, my dear readers! This is a bit longer than a normal drabble, I'd say, but I just couldn't fit all I wanted about the Black Edelweiss Institute in less. *shivers* Please enjoy!_

**Home**

He was far from home. Running through an endless maze of dark, unfeeling stone corridors, the faint, echoing sound of footsteps resounding through the place.

His mind raced in time with his swift sprints, but each trail of thought lead to an impasse - much like these dim passages. The faint shrill of a whistle reverberated through the cold halls, the pounding of blended footsteps echoing from every direction; they were coming at him from everywhere…there was no place to hide, nowhere to run where they would not inevitably find him, and then…

He had heard the wailing and screaming for mercy no matter what area he entered in that godforsaken place, felt the clammy, twitching fingers clutching desperately at him from the barred doors along the passages, smelt the coppery scent of rooms covered in blood and seen the faces twisted in irreversible distress.

For countless hours, he had fought for mere survival in that dark, sinister, merciless asylum that seemed from the inside like an abyss isolated from the safe world around. Alone, he faced the scarred, abusive brutes who played the role of doctor's assistants; unaided by a soul, he had discovered clues and pieces of the puzzle that would be the end of this blood-splattered institute.

Now, he was unaided by a soul in the world, fleeing brainwash, torture, and ultimately death at the hands of the bloodthirsty, deranged monster who dared call himself a doctor of medicine.

Moreover, even if he by some miracle survived the Black Edelweiss Institute, he had risen his utmost nemesis nearly from the very grave itself, and God only know how long it would be before Moriarty, his dark genius mixed with his new-found savage, obsessive insanity, sought his revenge. The Professor was no less than hell-bent only upon one thing, and one alone: watching Sherlock Holmes die and feeling the satisfaction of knowing he had done it.

He was physically near the point of collapse, mentally and emotionally traumatized by all he'd seen and done in that nightmarish place, and uncontrollably and irrationally terrified - more so than he could ever remember being in his life.

He donned his disguise, though he knew it was more than likely useless now that he had been discovered, and ran through the only door in the room.

He was just in time to see two figures entering through the atrium double doors in the vestibule.

Arguing heatedly with the dragon of a secretary, followed closely by the Swiss inspector he had obediently retrieved, was the only thing in all the world that could save him, could bring him out from that horror and grief by which he had been surrounded for so many endless hours, could bring him _home _again_._

It was Watson.

* * *

_I know that in the game Holmes wasn't quite this distressed, but that's only because...well...it's a game, and it's not like you can make a character in a game act a certain way and it work right, since it's not an actor, but a player, controlling him. And, to be perfectly honest, after everything, this was something of how _I_ myself was feeling there at the end! *blushes* After that Moriarty thing, I was just like, "WHAT NEXT?!" And then he ran through the door and Watson was there, "coming to his rescue," and if it'd been me, I probably would've cried or something. (I get really into stories, in case you can't tell. *hehe*) And I think Holmes was feeling something of the same way - I mean, why else would he've run blindly into the lobby, unless he was just freaked out? He had no way of knowing Watson had come, right? :)  
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave a little girl a nice review?? *biggrin*_


	4. Risk

_The setting of this drabble is directly after the last drabble; it takes place in the train in the scene after Watson rescues Holmes from the Black Edelweiss, just minutes after Holmes explains to Watson that they will be going to New Orleans._

**Risk**

"_You should have told me about your plans, Holmes!"_

"_Definitely not, Watson. You would have acted in an unnatural manner and done everything to persuade me against my course of action."_

"_You can be sure of that! Good God, Holmes, think of the risk you took!"_

"_Indeed, Watson. And I hesitate to reveal my further plans. They are likely to be far more dangerous."_

* * *

I sit in this cushioned seat in our small compartment, watching the world whisk by outside the window in endless, blurred shades of cheerless greys and dead browns. The only sounds are the faint, distant chugs of the train's engine and the deep, even breathing of my obviously exhausted friend where he sits across from me with that accursed stone idol in his limp hands. His eyes move sporadically beneath his lids, as if he is dreaming.

Then again, perhaps it is a nightmare, originated from those many terrible hours spent within the dark walls of that evil Black Edelweiss Institute. I shudder to think of what my dear friend must have endured from the time I left to fetch the Swiss inspector until when I returned again; the thought of what demons will now most assuredly haunt him in his slumber — secretly, no doubt, as he in all probability will never admit it to even me — is heartrending.

My sharp regret for leaving him — however unintentional it was on my part — and my deep sympathy for his affliction are rivaled only by the seething anxiety and anger that roil inside of me.

When I voiced only the barest of my thoughts to him, he showed hardly the slightest concern for either his own safety or my distress as his neglecting it, and proceeded to casually explain to me the plans which he had already set for both our futures, involving another journey far from Baker Street, this time to American soil.

I want to tell him that I refuse to be a part of his hellish case any longer, to question why he felt it necessary to mislead me yet again for his highly-valued case, to demand he tell he how he _dared _risk his life for the second time in that country that holds so many tragic memories already, to force him to consider for a moment the affect it would have had upon me to wait days for his return before realizing he had vanished without a trace…then perhaps to find him endless years subsequent, withered and lifeless, having faded away into an unresponsive shadow with no past in a cold, sunless, dungeon-like cell, or, at best, with a damaged, wasted brain that would never recover its glory or remember his past existence as the greatest detective in the whole of England.

I very nearly want to leave him to his own fate, to give up this seemingly hopeless battle against the evils, to free myself of the ploys and falsehoods he uses to constantly deceive me, to forget these years of intimate friendship and enthralling adventure at the side of Sherlock Holmes.

Even should I vow to carry out my inward threats, I know I cannot. No matter what cruel tricks he plays or what deplorable lies he tells, I cannot abandon him. I cannot leave him to fight alone his bloody, dangerous battles. I cannot forsake him in the midst of the pitiless world with the knowledge of what could potentially occur if I did.

I cannot take that risk.

And so I shall continue with him to the shores of the new world, and stand unflinchingly by his side, for whatever may come. Whatever he endured alone in that wretched prison, whatever might haunt him from this day onward, and whatever personal hurt he has caused me, none will change the fact that I am, irrefutably, his friend and partner through all times of trouble and hardship.

And that is the risk I am willing to take.

* * *

_I just added the last two paragraphs after I uploaded this document, so I'm not entirely sure it fits correctly. *crosses fingers* If anyone has any ideas for drabbles or fics of The Awakened, please don't be afraid to request. :)_


	5. Panic

**Panic**

He stood there, all alone in that damp, cold, underground cavern. Death seemed to surround him at all sides — quite literally, considering the ankle-deep piles of broken bones that lay scattered about the dirty ground. Every turn he made, darkness swallowed him whole, and now not even the dim lantern could offer any hope for it, broken as it was.

He walked past the skeletal remains of a centuries-dead drunkard, stepped over a rotting wooden crate that held gunpowder and sails from ships long-sunk on the shores of this haunted coast, and stumbled over sharp, moist rocks until — at last — he reached a large crack in the ceiling of the cave where he could look up and see the dull moonlight glowing through the billowing clouds and torrential rain.

Even with all the unnerving disturbances of the pirates' cave, coupled with the sure knowledge of what unspeakable horrors he would soon find upon entering that cursed lighthouse aboveground, he was yet unafraid. From the moment he realized the truth behind the kidnappings, discovered the inhumane tactics of the believers of the "Great Ones," he had steeled his mind and emotions. He had prepared himself mentally for whatever nightmarish things he might encounter on this long, chilling voyage.

With all his careful planning and every bit of his mental preparation, he found himself entirely ill-prepared for the onslaught of rising panic in his chest when he called out for his friend and received no answer save the unending roar of the wind.

* * *

_Please tell me someone else noticed the edge his voice took on when he kept calling over and over from the cave... _


End file.
